


all eyes on me, in the center of the ring (just like a circus)

by lostandlonelybirds (RUNNFROMTHEAK)



Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge 2020 [9]
Category: Lucifer (TV), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Dick Grayson, Dick's method of coping, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Thotty Dick Grayson, Top Lucifer Morningstar, fuck the grief out, minor exhibition kink, no beta we die like my sleep schedule, obviously the only possible solution to trauma and bruce being a dick is fucking the devil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26723761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/pseuds/lostandlonelybirds
Summary: “Dick Grayson,” falls off those plush lips easily as the angel spins in his arms. Richard’s eyes are darker up close, more azure than lapis blue. His skin’s more golden too, and if it weren’t for Lucifer’s innate ability to sense the holier-than-thou presence of halos among the crowd, he’d still be convinced this man’s not mortal.“A pleasure,” Lucifer murmurs warmly, feeling hypnotized by those expressive pools of blue, by the arms twining around his neck boldly, shamelessly, possessively. This human’s fascinating, moving like liquid mercury in his arms as the strobe lights dance and the music pounds against their skin. Entrancing. He hasn’t been this interested since…Eve, perhaps. Or maybe the Detective.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge 2020 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834162
Comments: 9
Kudos: 135
Collections: Dick Grayson Rare Pair Challenge





	all eyes on me, in the center of the ring (just like a circus)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> I will write more of this pairing when I have time!! And more smut for you Q, eventually!  
> Enjoy!

The first time Lucifer Morningstar sees Dick Grayson, he thinks he’s one of dear-old dad’s infuriating messengers. The man’s stunning, the kind of man that bedazzles males and females effortlessly, the kind of man that lights up a room when he smiles, glowing with sheer goodness. His skin is golden, and his eyes are a shade of blue that reminds Lucifer of heaven’s finest jewels.

In a word, he’s a poncey git upon first glance. Lucifer’s type to a ‘t’, all doll-faced perfection he wants to mark, ruin, _corrupt_. Deliciously sinful thoughts, all sorts of fun desires as he comes closer, a beacon of light dancing through a darkened crowd. Mazikeen’s grin is knowing as he moves from the bar towards the angel in leather pants, and he can feel more than see the red stir in his gaze. Everyone’s watching this angel, a showman in a room full of them, but something about him’s alluring, beyond the normal. Something about the angel draws the attention of every sad soul drowning their sorrows at the bar, every horny man and woman eager to score. Something in the fluid grace he moves with. Something in the carelessness in his slow rutting against the few lucky enough to be close. He’s no angel, Lucifer realizes at once. No angel moves like that, not the ones sent from Heaven, at least.

The crowd parts for Lucifer easily enough, pleasant chatter and sultry winks and crimson-lipped smirks a normal part of his routine. They love him. He loves them. In body, if not in heart. He’s never found the heart useful. Dead stupid, sure, but the love of touch is _much_ more productive than the love of souls and hearts and all that Heaven-sent gospel that sends him to sleep ( _honestly_ , you’d think a good shag would loosen the poles shoved so inelegantly up his brother and sister’s asses, but the only virgin is Mary and she didn’t stay that way for long in hypocritical land of pearly gates and missionary position).

He smells it thick and heady in the air, desire ripe for the picking. Living, breathing, _desire_. It’s tangible in the crowd, alive in every sway of the devious angel’s hips, thrumming with every coy glance he shoots at his admirers. This one feels _alive_ , every breath, every look, every touch to an unworthy suitor… He’s never _met_ a human so alive. There’s a sheen of sweat upon the angel’s forehead by the time Lucifer pushes through the last drones of people, sending a few blokes on their way with promise of free drinks to take their place. It doesn’t dull his complexion, Lucifer notices with interest. It enhances it if anything. A youthful sort of glow, exuberant in every way that’s so fitting of this man of mystery. Azure eyes lock on his immediately, wary, but pretty boy accepts Lucifer’s hands on his waist. He throws his head back in a laugh when Lucifer’s lines his cock up against the delicious ass he wants to _feel_ and _taste_.

“What’s your name, my pretty angel?”

Angel laughs again, hands reaching up behind him to cup Lucifer’s neck. He tugs on it, pulling Lucifer closer as he sways. There’s a sparkle that catches Lucifer’s eye, a shining trail down the skintight blue v-neck his dancing partner wears like a second skin. _Tease_ , he thinks but he does love a good tease.

“Do I feel like an angel?” he murmurs in Lucifer’s ear, grinding back against him deliciously.

Lucifer lets out a soft groan, pushing back against him.

“No,” he admits, “but I haven’t a name to put to those gorgeous eyes of yours.”

His dance partner smirks, pulling Lucifer close enough that he can _feel_ the pulse of mortality, can _smell_ the delightful coconut scent the man wears. He brushes his lips over the angel’s pulse point, sampling the delicious taste of him where it’s most fragrant. Angel shivers in his arms, all wanton desire and seven kinds of sin (Lucifer would know, he commits them on a daily after all).

“Dick Grayson,” falls off those plush lips easily as the angel spins in his arms. Richard’s eyes are darker up close, more azure than lapis blue. His skin’s more golden too, and if it weren’t for Lucifer’s innate ability to sense the holier-than-thou presence of halos among the crowd, he’d still be convinced this man’s not mortal.

“A pleasure,” Lucifer murmurs warmly, feeling hypnotized by those expressive pools of blue, by the arms twining around his neck boldly, shamelessly, possessively. This human’s fascinating, moving like liquid mercury in his arms as the strobe lights dance and the music pounds against their skin. Entrancing. He hasn’t been this interested since…Eve, perhaps. Or maybe the Detective.

So hard to recall when neither of them is hear, and the man flush against him’s so enrapturing. So _captivating_.

Glossy lips brush over his jaw, soft and languid, teasing more than purposeful. The way Richard’s tongue feels against his skin should be a sin, should be enough to damn them both to hell with its heat, but what can he say. He’s used to being burnt, and this might be the best way yet.

“What’s your name?” Richard asks, letting Lucifer’s greedy hands spin him, feeling the flush of skin through the tight clothing. “What brings you here?”

Lucifer smirks, pulling him impossibly close, close as can be. He drinks in his partner’s desire, the life radiating off him like some heavenly glow, like a beacon for the worst sorts. Relatively speaking. Dear old dad does appreciate a good scumbag for the right reasons, so long as the man’s dick is abstinent as possible.

“How refreshing to not be recognized,” Lucifer says, feeling those stunning eyes narrow on him suspiciously. He can tell the moment Richard recognizes him, placing a name to a face, so to speak. “Lucifer Morningstar, at your service my angel.”

* * *

There’s something about death that’s supposed to bring people together, but Dick’s never seen it. His parents’ deaths took him from them, from his home, left in a murderous city with corruption built into its very foundations. Jason’s death drove a wedge between him and Bruce, a crack to that bridge that neither of them cared to repair. Death tears people apart, breaks them down into fragments, halves, echoes of their former self. What’s the point in coming together once you learn it will only ever fall apart?

Something about Donna’s death sends him running. _Everything_ about her death sends him running. Because it always comes down to him. His failures. His weaknesses. His mistakes. He should have taken that blow, should’ve fought harder, should’ve been faster, better, stronger. Dick shouldn’t have needed her protection, but he had, and now Bruce thinks he’s fragile, thinks this deal with Slade is a mistake he won’t let Dick make. He doesn’t trust him, doesn’t trust Dick to handle himself, and Dick’s tired. Beyond tired. Tired of the way people look at him like cracked glass on the verge of breaking, like a teacup teetering on the edge of a kitchen counter caught between faked normality and shattering completely. Tired of the measured words, even tones. Tired of _Bruce_ being the controlling ass he is, constantly monitoring and watching but never using his _words_.

Dick’s perpetually broken, perpetually traumatized, endlessly suspended between his past and his future, between what he wants and what he’s allowed.

And so he runs to LA, because it’s nowhere near Bruce, nowhere near Roy. He drinks and fucks and smokes and does whatever the hell he wants for once in his life because here people don’t _look_ at him like he’s cracking, the lines of strangers don’t walk around eggshells with him. They don’t care, and blissfully, Dick doesn’t care either. Three nights in LA and he feels a pull, a trail of smoke leading to the biggest club in town – the Lux – that he can’t resist. Some kind of magnetism, some kind of allure.

He feels the eyes on him as soon as he enters, like little needles on the back of his neck. Dick’s used to being in the spotlight, he still remembers the taste of Vaseline in his mouth from hours of smiling until his entire face hurt, or the sensation of narrowly dodging trails of bullets as Batman struck from the shadows. It’s not unfamiliar, and for once, it’s more than welcome. The hands are welcome too, the men and women sidling up to him, grinding against him, only to be pushed away and replaced by a new warm body. He craves heat, _closeness_ , pure sensation to chase of the pang of loneliness, the sting of anger at Bruce, the grief still lingering like a storm cloud above his head waiting for the right moment to pour. Dick wants to be alive, wants to _feel_ alive, and it doesn’t matter who it’s with.

When the crowd parts from him and a new man grinds against his ass, Dick feels a bit like laughing, tipsy off a few free drinks from admirers and the high that comes with attention, with being _desired_ like this. They can’t take what he freely gives, and he loves the way their hungry eyes follow him, the way they want him so completely, so _desperately_ , because they can’t have him. Most of them can’t. They aren’t the kind of partner Dick wants in bed, not right now.

He’s felt the man’s eyes on him for what feels like forever, like a shiver of excitement up his spine. It’s thrilling, because there’s something _dangerous_ in those eyes, something sinful and warning and everything he shouldn’t want but _does_. He’s bored, he’s been bored, and the guy’s accent and diamond-cutting jawline only make him more interested, more intrigued.

Dick’s flush against his nameless suitor when the brown eyes he’s starring in flash a crimson red, like the glow of a Lazarus pit – a warning.

There’s only one person he’s ever heard of with those eyes.

“Lucifer Morningstar, at your service, my angel.”

Fuck.

“A pleasure,” Dick repeats back, struggling to conceal the _oh fuck_ that he’s sure Lucifer sees in his eyes, because he’d somehow neglected to check _which_ club Lucifer owns, despite Constantine and Zee telling him that Lucifer resides in L.A. now. This is what happens when he lets his libido lead him around. At least Lucifer’s hot as hell (unintentional, but very much approved pun).

Lucifer’s smirk widens, as though he can hear the up-tempo his heart takes, racing like the Batmobile down Gotham streets at 3am, like Dick’s very skin betrays his nerves, pulsating with them. He has the feeling Lucifer sees right through the too-bright smile Dick flashes, like he knows more than Dick want him to. It’s intimidating, but also…

So terribly interesting. He’s always been insatiably curious about people he shouldn’t be. It’s how he’d ended up with Slade Wilson as a frenemy he occasionally sleeps with.

“Tell me Richard,” Lucifer whispers, warm like silk and hot like temptation against his neck, lips just barely grazing over his too-warm skin. Lucifer makes sure Dick’s watching him, smug in his ministrations, fingers brushing over areas with promise of more, once they dance. Once Dick submits. Lucifer’s eyes are still that smoldering red when he pulls away, like danger, like… _desire._ “What is it you desire?”

Desires spring to mind in layers, each more convoluted and confusing the next. Deciphering his own desires has never been something he’s excelled in, not when (much like peeling the layers of an onion) it leaves him with a sting in his eyes and wetness on his cheeks, but several come forth and rest on his tongue.

He wants to be seen, known, treated like the man he is rather than the sidekick he _was_.

He wants to be loved, treasured, and held in high regard for more than his looks and convenience.

He wants to be warm, whole, instead of this coldness seeping into his limbs, a permanent fixture of his ongoing grief from Donna’s sacrifice.

He wants…He wants…He wants…

He wants to feel, to taste, to touch, to be _consumed_.

The last desire is the one compelled into words, spoken like sin as it drips from his tongue into the electrified air, sin Lucifer laps at eagerly.

“That can be arranged,” Lucifer says, and then his lips fall on Dick’s and the strobe lights and sweaty flesh and music pounding louder than his heart fade away. Everything fades away, hazy, and unimportant compared to the taste of cognac and spice off Lucifer’s tongue, the infernal damning heat of his fingers in Dick’s hair, on Dick’s exposed skin – mapping, planning, memorizing.

Lucifer’s committing him to memory, eager and ready to take him, and Dick’s all too happy to let him.

* * *

Richard does not submit all at once. It’s a series of concessions, an extended give and take that leaves Lucifer hungry for more, more submission, more heat, more _fire_. He wants nothing less than Richard’s total acceptance, complete trust in Lucifer’s ability to satiate the desire tangled in knots, twisted uncomfortably in his angel’s chest. He can feel it in every sway of his hips, every coded look, and glint of that delicious jewelry wrapped around his hips and neck, plunging down the V-neck of his azure blue shirt, perfectly matched to Richard’s eyes.

Lucifer sways with him, follows his every step carefully, allowing him to lead their little dance, uncaring of the eyes that follow them both, or the way Maze’s crimson smirk curls, swirling the olive in her drink carefully, thoughtfully. He’s careful of his every indication of intent, wary of Richard’s too-knowing eyes tracing his micro gestures with the eyes of a detective. Nightwing, he thinks, and the scent of nighttime air and gunpowder lingering in Dick’s hair gives credit to that theory. It also explains his stubbornness, his relentless ability to force Lucifer to wait despite being a cup filled to the brim of impatience, desires spilling over in the smallest incline of that silky smooth neck, scars carefully concealed to all but him, in the press of his lips against Lucifer’s own skin, wary and soft.

Lucifer’s a patient devil if he does say so himself, and He may desire punishment for such impropriety, impatience and eager coaxing to sinfully slick caresses of skin against, skin above all else (Hell hath no fury like a dickish father scorned) but Lucifer desires desire.

“Would it be acceptable to move this… _dance_ upstairs, Richard?”

“You want me in your bed?” Richard inquires, licking his smirking mouth carefully, making sure Lucifer’s eyes are locked on the motion, entranced. His blue eyes glimmer with mirth, hands tracing Lucifer’s skin through the shirt he’s regretfully still wearing.

“Darling,” Lucifer says, lips curling around the endearment carefully, tasting the way it feels on his tongue. “I want you wherever I’m allowed to have you.”

“And if I say that’s here? In front of all your guests?”

Lucifer smirks.

“You won’t have a complaint from me, and dare I say not a peep of protest from any of these guests.”

“Right answer,” Richard murmurs, dragging him into another too-short kiss, not allowing Lucifer to deepen it the way he aches to. The little _tease_ … “but I think _I_ desire something more private…”

“Of course,” Lucifer replies, offering Richard an arm he easily takes. “We can always invite Maze to watch later on, if you’re interested.”

Maze smirks at this, raising her glass like she can hear them. Which she might be able to, Lucifer’s never _actually_ been certain of what Maze is and isn’t able to hear.

“Perhaps.”

Richard reminds him a bit of Constantine, a different flavor with a similar stubbornness. Confidence and careful manipulations with an edge of vulnerability concealed in the slow-burn of their desire, the lack of self-care or release until Lucifer forces it. Yes, he and Johnny-boy had had some wickedly good times, some of which Maze and Miss Zatara had joined in on, but Richard’s allure is sweeter, with none of the nicotine-fueled acidity lingering in his languid kisses, in the careful slide of his tongue against Lucifer’s, like he has all the time in the world as the elevator separates them from the crowd of guests he doesn’t care to see. He’s sure he’s being a terrible host, but he doesn’t really care at the present.

Procrastination of responsibility is not a sin, regardless of what Amenadiel and the Detective choose to believe. Sticks in the mud, the two of them.

“You’re a delightful enigma,” Lucifer says sweetly, kissing it into Richard’s jaw. “Absolutely entrancing.”

“I could say the same of you. Constantine had a lot of thoughts on the Devil of the West Coast.”

“Darling, I’m the Devil of _everywhere_. But it’s good to hear Johnny still thinks of me. Did you have sex with him too? He’s delightfully submissive, once you satisfy that little self-flagellation kink of his.”

Dick chuckles.

“Once or twice… _mmm_ …”

He lets out a breathy sigh as Lucifer pushes him against the glass walls of his balcony, feeling the last light of the setting sun caress their skin in its pseudo-warmth. It paints Richard like a halo, divinity in all but the name, frighteningly beautiful, all _his_ …

For the night at least.

“How are you, in sex?” Lucifer asks between fleeting presses of warmth to Richard’s neck, teasing enough to feel the shivers and shakes of burning skin beneath him, _against_ him, where they press together like two puzzle pieces. “Do you like taking? Giving?”

Richard breathes out a shaky sigh, eyes squeezed shut as Lucifer’s fingers press against the strong lines of muscle in his arm, in his hips, pushing their bodies as close as he can until Richard’s hands are flat against the glass, eyes curious over his shoulder, lips red from their exchanges.

“I like it all,” he says carefully, “but I feel…”

Lucifer’s eyes adopt that red glow again, he can feel it as surely as he feels that caged beast just beneath the skin, his own desires building and brimming, an impatient simmer in his blood, tantamount to the rumbles of thunder before the ozone of lightning cracks across the sky.

“I want you to fuck me,” Richard says. “I want you to make me submit. Make me _forget_ …”

Lucifer maps out the scars he can taste more than he can see along the lines of Richard’s neck, memorizing every inch of skin he dares to touch.

“You crave a lack of control,” Lucifer purrs, “release, someone else taking the reins for a while. I’m good at that, dear angel.”

Richard’s breath hitches, feeling Lucifer’s fingers slide under the tight shirt, over the delicious abs he’d seen through the shirt.

“ _Please_ ,” he says, and Lucifer is a devil of his word. How can he do anything _but_ oblige when the angel in a mortal coil asks so prettily? How can he not give the man what he wants when their sinful desires align so perfectly?

Lucifer pulls away with a smirk.

“Strip.”

Richard’s eyes shine with mirth, and he quickly pulls off his painted-on leather pants and tight shirt, but Lucifer wraps his hand around Richard’s wrist before he can remove the jewelry.

“Leave that, my delightful little vixen. _Just_ that.”

Richard complies with a knowing grin, stripping off his boxers, shoes, and socks until he’s nude as a newborn babe before Lucifer’s hungry eyes, tracing the canvas of gold skin and silver scars appraisingly. He wants to devour, to _consume_ , feast on all the desire in Richard until there’s nothing _but_ him there. He wants to carve himself into Richard’s soul, meld them together in their sinful pursuits and make it so this angel will want to stay.

But first…

Lucifer unzips his trousers, coaxing his cock free of its confines under Richard’s hungry eyes. Richard’s pink tongue darts out to wet that plump mouth, and Lucifer groans, fisting himself briefly, just enough to get to optimal hardness. Not a difficult task, with such a delicious morsel eager for him. For a taste of the devil.

“If I say pretty please,” Lucifer whispers in Richard’s ear, licking the shell of it to feel his partner shiver. “Would you be willing to please me?”

Richard’s lips quirk, and he nods.

“On your knees then,” Lucifer says, patting his ass none too gently. “Pretty please.”

His angel complies easily, lips red and inviting as they take him in, take him _deep_ , and Lucifer groans again as he feels the heat. Feels the wonderful heat surround him, engulf him, _scald_ him. Richard moves up and down his member like it’s a fine-tuned instrument, sucking it like its an art form or the end of the world. It’s all perfect technique and glorious intuition, adjusting based on the small noises Lucifer releases despite his best efforts.

Richard’s good, easily among the top ten, and Lucifer can feel the warning of an orgasm as he pulls Richard off him, up to his lips where he delves into that warmth and tastes the barest hint of himself there. He could kiss Richard for hours and find not a moment of that time wasted, but he has other plans. _Bigger_ plans.

He cups Richard’s ass lightly, teasing the whine from his mouth and trailing wet kisses along his throat. It’s too easy to lift him, feeling Richard’s legs wrap around his waist without hesitation, to slip one finger between those inviting cheeks and feel the lube already there. He cocks a brow at his angel, who only gives a smirk.

Lucifer still stretches him out, he always likes to be extra cautious, and the little kitten-sweet noises Richard releases is a reward in and of itself. He chases them with an eager tongue, muffling them with a fervor he can’t quite explain. He’s quite good at kissing, but normally he isn’t so focused on it…

“Move,” Richard whines, blue eyes shining. “Do something, Lucifer come _on_ —”

Lucifer cuts him off with another kiss, thrusting into him and shoving him against the glass windows for lack of better placement. The jewelry shudders along with his partner, trembling as Lucifer sets a rhythm and fucks him apart where just about anyone could see, were they to bother looking up.

There’s a thrill in the possibility of being seen, and from the way Richard presses into him, no longer bothering to mask all the delicious noises low in his throat, he can tell he has a little exhibitionist on his hands. More credit to his Nightwing theory, he supposes. Perhaps he can persuade this angel to wear it for him, another night. Rooftops make for great sex, or so Constantine’s told him. He hasn’t had a chance to try it out for himself.

It doesn’t take long for him to feel that familiar coil of heat deep in his gut, and he has to think about Dad and Mom getting it on to take the edge off, to wait, but it seems he needn’t have bothered when Richard comes with a cry, painting their stomachs with thick, white ropes of release. Lucifer groans as Richard clenches around him, fucking himself back to the brink, back to that delicious point of ecstasy just on the verge of release, and—

He pulls out just in time, marking Richard’s golden legs with his own pleasure. It’s a pleasing image, and he wonders how those blue eyes would look, under his release…

“Lucifer?” Richard asks, standing on shaky legs with a smirk.

“Do you think round two can be in a bed?”

Lucifer snakes a possessive arm around his bare waist, wondering if Richard will allow Lucifer to mark him.

“I live to please.”

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts?


End file.
